"This love so hard the winning.For ever will endure,If all the world be sinning,Why should we two be pure?"
"This love so hard the winning.
For ever will endure,
If all the world be sinning,
Why should we two be pure?"
"I'm afraid she won't take the same view as that," he muttered to himself discontentedly, thinking of Lady Errington. "And yet, if she doesn't love her husband, she may have a kindly feeling for me. As to the child, surely no woman--not even this Madonna--can devote herself exclusively to it. Still, the child is the obstacle between herself and her husband, so perhaps it will be the obstacle between herself and me. Oh! I could love her! I could love her if she would only let me! She will let me! I'm certain of it! Guy has no brains, and she is starving for the want of intellectual food. The child is the excuse, but that is the real reason of the coldness between them."
One of the most extraordinary parts of Gartney's delusion concerning his chance of success with Lady Errington lay in the fact that his present reasoning was diametrically opposed to the views he held when first meeting Lady Errington. He then asserted that she would never care for her husband, but when she became a mother would lavish all her love on the child. This view of Alizon's character was a correct one, as Eustace in his innermost heart well knew, but he wilfully deceived himself in thinking that now she had obtained her heart's desire she would give it up for the sake of a man whom she had hardly seen. Eustace, however, had been so uniformly triumphant with the female sex, that the idea of failing with Alizon never entered his mind, and he thought that if he laid siege to Lady Errington, in a dexterous fashion, she would give up everything--husband, child, name, and home--in order to gratify his selfish desire.
When he came to England after his many months' absence in Arabia, Gartney had determined not to see Lady Errington, feeling that he loved her, or rather her idolized memory, so much, that he would not be able to suppress his passion, and thus behave dishonourably towards his cousin Guy by running away with his wife. Aunt Jelly, however, by telling him of the estrangement between the pair had banished this honourable hesitation from his heart, as he felt himself forced by Fate to see the woman he loved face to face. It was a very convenient excuse with which to quiet his conscience for this wrong-doing, and having settled in his own selfish mind that Fate was too strong for him, he determined to estrange husband and wife still further, so that he would have less trouble in overcoming Lady Errington's scruples to his dishonourable proposals.
This idea which he held had been singularly strengthened by the remark of Aunt Jelly, when she said that Guy in his present state would be the prey of the first clever woman that came along. Eustace therefore determined to introduce Guy to some clever woman who would entangle him in her net, and the woman he had fixed upon in his own mind for this vile purpose was--Mrs. Veilsturm.
It was curious that he should have fixed on this special woman to do this, seeing that he was ignorant of Mrs. Veilsturm's grudge against Lady Errington, and did not know how eagerly she would seize this opportunity of revenging herself on the woman who had slighted her so scathingly. He merely chose Mrs. Veilsturm because she was beautiful, clever, and unscrupulous, so a hint to her would be quite sufficient to induce her to fascinate Guy by all the means in her power.
Eustace Gartney was by no means a thoroughly bad man. Indeed, he had very good qualities, although they were, to a great extent, neutralized by his indomitable selfishness, and therefore he suffered several qualms of conscience over the dishonourable scheme he had in hand.
His intense egotism and love of gratifying self, however, came to his aid, and he argued himself into a satisfactory frame of mind by Heaven only knows what sophistry.
"She doesn't care a bit about her husband," he reflected, pacing the room with measured strides, "she never did care about him, and it's a pity to see a clever woman like that tied to an unsympathetic log. With me, her life will be much happier than with him, and after he gets a divorce I will marry her, and we will live abroad, where there will be no narrow-minded bigots to scoff at what they will call her false step. I'll do it, at whatever cost! My life will be a blank without her, and she will be unhappy with Guy, so it will be far the best for both of us to come together, even at the cost of a public scandal. I'm sorry for Guy, but the one must suffer for the many, and I daresay in after years he will thank me for taking from him a wife from whom, even now, after less than two years of married life, he is estranged."
So Eustace, sophist as he was, argued in favour of his dishonourable passion, and would have even succeeded in persuading himself that he was a much-injured person by having to undergo such trouble, but for a certain uneasy feeling that he ruthlessly crushed down.
Having settled his plans to his own satisfaction, Eustace had another smoke, then going to the window, drew aside the curtains and looked forth into the black night.
The wind was rising and whistled shrilly round the house, lashing the dark waves into lines of seething white foam which glimmered ghost-like through the gloom, while overhead the thin filmy clouds raced across the sky over the face of the haggard-looking moon. He could hear the thunder of the surge on the distant beach, the wind muttering drearily among the trees, and casting his eyes overhead he saw the pallid moonlight streaming in ghastly radiance through the ragged clouds.
Dropping the curtain with a sigh, he sauntered across to the piano, and began to improvise a weird fantasy in keeping with the feelings aroused by the wild scene without. The roll of the sea, the wuthering of the wind, and the rustle of the reeds were all transmuted into strange harmonies under the touch of his skilful fingers, and stealing out at intervals from amid the tempest of sound, stole a strange, sobbing strain, fitful and wayward as the breeze, as if some malicious demon were piping heart-stealing love-songs to the sky, and the night, and the lonely marsh.
He remained some time at the piano, following his changeful fancies, but when the clock struck nine he closed the instrument, and had one final pipe before going to bed. As he sat in front of the fire, looking into the heart of the burning coals, he went over again in his own mind the details of the scheme by which he hoped to secure his cousin's wife to himself.
"Yes," he said aloud in the silence of the room, "it is all right! There is no flaw!"
There was a flaw, however, and one which, in his blind egotism and complacent selfishness, he entirely overlooked, and that was the love of the mother for her child.
"A statue cut in marble whiteTo me gives but a cold delight,Although 'tis fairI do not care,For joy begins and ends with sight."A woman pure as virgin snows,Within whose veins the life-blood flows,Whose smile revealsThe love she feels,Ah, such a one is Love's true rose."
"A statue cut in marble whiteTo me gives but a cold delight,
Although 'tis fairI do not care,
For joy begins and ends with sight.
"A woman pure as virgin snows,Within whose veins the life-blood flows,
Whose smile revealsThe love she feels,
Ah, such a one is Love's true rose."
The next morning Eustace made up his mind to go to Errington Hall in the afternoon, and meanwhile amused himself in leisurely strolling along the beach watching the waves rolling landward.
Behind him the sand hills rose in low mounds with their scanty vegetation, shutting out the marshes beyond, then came the narrow strip of sandy beach on which his footsteps left deeply imprinted marks, and before him, sombre under the leaden coloured sky, stretched the heaving ocean, with thin lines of white-crested waves breaking to cold foam at his feet. The sky, filled with rain-charged clouds, lowered heavily on the chill earth, and midway flew a wide-winged sea-gull, uttering discordant cries.
It was a dreary scene, and Eustace, with his hands clasped behind him, stared at the dismal prospect, which was quite in keeping with his own disturbed feelings. He was meditating a dishonourable action, and he knew it, so in spite of his determination to carry it through to the bitter end, he felt oppressed by a vague feeling of dread that all his villainy would be of no avail. In the course of his selfish life he had done many foolish things, at which the world had looked askance, but hitherto his pride had preserved him from dishonour, but now he stood on the edge of an abyss into which he was about to plunge of his own free will, and, in spite of his egotistical philosophy, he trembled at the prospect before him.
Supposing he did induce Lady Errington to return his passion and leave England with him, what benefit would it bring to him or to her? To her a ruined home, the memory of a deserted child, the prospect of exile from all social circles, and an endless regret for her fall; to him, delighted companionship for a time, and then a sense of weary disgust, of futile sorrow for a past that could not be undone, and constant discord between himself and the partner of his shame.
Was it worth the risk he was running, for a chimera, a fanciful creation of his own brain, a desire for a vision that might never be realised? And all this time with characteristic selfishness, not a thought for the deserted husband, for the motherless child.
"Hallo, Eustace! Where are you?"
Gartney arose to his feet with an ejaculation, the red blood rushing to his face.
"Guy!"
It was Guy, his cousin, the man whose wife he loved, the man whose home he intended to destroy, and, even wrapped as he was in his triple armour of pride, egotism, and self-complacency, he felt the sting of remorse. It was too late, however, to think of such things, he having fully made up his mind to act; so he crushed down the feeling which might have made him a better man, and went forward to meet his cousin, who was walking smartly along the beach.
Eighteen months had not made much change in Errington, save that he was a little stouter, but he looked as handsome as ever, only there was a discontented look on his face, as if he were thoroughly dissatisfied with his life, as indeed he was. He had evidently ridden over, as he was in a riding dress, and he advanced towards Eustace with one hand in his pocket, the other holding his hunting crop with which he carelessly switched his boots.
"Well, dear old fellow, I am glad to see you again," he said, coming to his cousin and holding out his hand.
"You are very kind, Guy," faltered Eustace, quietly shaking hands, with the feeling of remorse again dominant in his breast. "I was going over to see you this afternoon."
"Were you?" said Errington, listlessly. "Oh, yes!--of course, but I heard at the village you had come to Castle Grim, so, as I was mounted, I thought I'd come on here. I've left my horse with that old Caliban of yours and came down to look you up."
"I'm very glad to see you," returned Eustace, turning away his head. "Shall we go back to the house?"
"No, not yet," responded Errington, throwing himself down on the dry sand. "Let us talk here. I want to speak to you privately, Eustace, and this is the best place."
Gartney knew in his own mind that Errington wanted to speak about his wife, so sat down near the recumbent form of his cousin, and waited for him to begin the conversation.
Nothing was said, however, until, after a moment's silence, Guy looked up at Gartney's face with a frown.
"Good Lord, man, have you left your tongue behind in Arabia?" he said roughly, leaning his cheek on his hand.
Eustace laughed a little bitterly.
"Perhaps it would have been as well if I had done so," he said deliberately, "it might save my soul the burden of many lies."
"As whimsical as ever!"
"Do you think so? No doubt! Solitude is rather apt to confirm a man in his eccentric habits. By-the-way, you have not told me how your wife is?"
"Quite well," replied Errington shortly.
"And the son and heir, on whose birth I must congratulate you?"
"Oh, he's all right."
Guy spoke this last sentence in such a bitter tone that Eustace could not help turning round and looking at him. He was gazing moodily at the sand, but glanced upward, as he felt rather than saw that Gartney had turned round, and smiled ironically.
"You seem surprised?" he said at length.
"I am surprised," answered Eustace deliberately. "When I saw you in Italy, you spoke very differently--very differently indeed."
"Ah, but you see that was in my character of a newly-married man," sneered Guy, picking up a handful of sand and letting it stream through his fingers. "All that sort of thing is over."
"And why is it over?" asked Eustace, coldly. "Eighteen months can scarcely make so much difference----"
"It makes every difference--in my case."
"Why?"
Guy sat up suddenly, clasped his hands round his knees, and staring at the ocean, answered in a dreary voice utterly devoid of any feeling:
"I daresay it will sound ridiculous to a man like yourself, Eustace, and no doubt you and the world will laugh at me when you know my reason. But I cannot help it. I've fought against the feeling, as much as ever I could. I've made all sorts of excuses for my wife, but it's all of no use."
"I'm quite in the dark as to what you are talking about."
"I'm talking about my wife," said Guy deliberately. "You know how much in love I was with her when we married?"
"And are you not in love with her now?"
"Yes, I am!"
"Then what have you to complain of?"
"Complain of!" echoed Errington with a bitter laugh. "I have nothing to complain of, according to the views of the world. Alizon is a perfect wife, a perfect mother, a perfect woman in every way. In fact, that is what I do complain of! She's too perfect."
"Good Heavens, man!" cried Eustace, now thoroughly exasperated. "I don't understand a word you are saying. If Alizon is perfect, both as wife and mother, what more do you want?"
"I want love," returned Guy, in a low, deep voice, the blood rushing to his face. "I want love and affection. I'm starving for one kind word and I cannot obtain it. It sounds ridiculous, does it not, for a man of my years to whimper about love like a silly schoolboy? But I cannot help it. I married Alizon in order to have a true and loving wife, and I find I am tied to a statue."
"But I cannot understand----"
"Of course, you can't," cried Errington vehemently, leaping to his feet, "how could you? a cold-blooded man, who can do without love and affection, who doesn't care two straws about any human being, and only adores the phantom creations of his own brain. Great Heaven!" said the unfortunate young man, staring wildly up at the leaden-coloured sky, "if I were only a man like that how happy I should be. But I'm not, I'm only a fellow who wants to be loved by his wife, but even that is denied me. I married Alizon for love. I loved her then, I love her now, and she cares no more for me than she does for yonder ocean."
"But surely the child is a bond of union between you?"
"The child!" repeated Errington fiercely, "no! the child, which should have drawn us closer together, has put us farther asunder than ever. I longed for a child to succeed me in the estates, and, now I have obtained my desire, I wish it had never been born. I hate the child! It seems horrible, Eustace, but I do. I hate it."
"Don't talk like that, Guy," cried Eustace, springing to his feet, and laying his hand on his cousin's arm, "it's terrible--your own child!"
"My own child! my own child," repeated Guy with senseless reiteration. "Yes! my own child."
He thrust his hands into his pockets, and abruptly turning away, walked a short distance in order to conceal his emotion, while Eustace stood silently in the same place, wondering at his cousin's grief over what appeared to him to be such a trivial matter. It might seem so to him, but it certainly was not to Guy, whose whole nature was smarting under a sense of neglect and injury.
After a few moments Errington returned, with a hard look on his face, and a cynical laugh on his lips.
"I beg your pardon, Eustace," he said ceremoniously, "for troubling you about these affairs, but if I hadn't someone to talk to about it, I believe I should go mad. I went up to Aunt Jelly the other day, and told her what I am now telling you, but she didn't seem to think much of it."
"You make a mistake there," said Gartney, quickly. "Aunt Jelly thought a great deal about it. In fact, it is because she urged me to see what I could do, that I am down here."
"You can't do anything," replied Errington listlessly, "no one can do anything. Alizon and myself are an ill-wedded pair. The quick coupled with the dead. She is a perfect wife, a perfect mother, and I, in the eyes of the world possessing a treasure in the matrimonial way, am the most miserable devil alive."
Eustace felt a sudden pang of compunction at the idea of the misery he proposed to add to the unhappy young man's life, and after a short struggle between the generous and selfish instincts of his nature, the former triumphed, and he determined to do his best to reconcile husband and wife. With this new resolve in his mind, he approached Guy, and taking him by the arm, walked slowly across the beach with him towards Castle Grim.
"Come to the house, old fellow," he said kindly. "You are working yourself into a perfect state over nothing. Have luncheon with me, and then we'll drive over together, and I'll do my best to put things right."
"Impossible," said Guy, gloomily, "quite impossible."
"How so?"
"It's easy enough explained! When I married my wife, I thought her coldness would wear off, but it did not. To all my love and tenderness, she was as cold as ice. Kind enough in a cold-blooded sort of way, but as far as any answering tenderness or feeling of sympathy, she might as well have been a statue. That was hard enough to bear, as you may imagine, but when the child was born it was much worse. She isn't a statue now, by any means, but her whole soul is wrapped up in the child. She's never away from him, she never stops talking about him, she lives in the nursery, and never comes near me. If I offer to caress her, she frowns and resents any display of affection. All her love, all her heart, is given to the child, and I've got to be content with cold looks, and about five minutes' conversation a day. I hardly ever see her, sometimes she doesn't even come to meals, and when I remonstrated with her, she turned on me in a cold fury, and asked me if I wanted her to neglect the child. What am I to do, Eustace? I can't force her to love me against her will. I can't keep her from the child. There seems nothing for me to do, but to be satisfied with the life I am leading now, and it's Hell, Eustace, Hell. It's a big word to describe a little thing, isn't it? The world would laugh at me if they heard me talk, but no one can understand it, unless they undergo it."
He spoke with great emotion, and although Eustace failed in a great measure to understand his deep feelings on the subject, he could not but see that his cousin had great cause to speak. A young man of ardent nature, to whom love is a necessity, finding himself tied to a woman who chilled every demonstration of affection, and lavished all her adoration on the child of which he was the father--it was truly a pitiable situation, and yet one at which the world would laugh, because the tragic elements therein were so simple.
Gartney listened in silence to the long speech, and saying nothing in reply, made his cousin have some luncheon, while he thought over the whole affair.
"I won't speak to Mrs. Veilsturm," he thought to himself, pouring out Guy a glass of wine, "if I can I'll bring them together again and then leave England for ever."
During the luncheon, he talked gaily enough to Errington, cheering him up by every means in his power, making up his mind in the meantime as to what was the best course to pursue.
When the meal was finished, he ordered Javelrack to bring round a horse, and, with Sir Guy, was soon trotting along the road on the way to Errington Hall.
"Now, listen to me, Guy," he said, when they were some distance on their journey. "I think you exaggerate a good deal of this thing. It's not half so bad as you make out. Alizon is a young mother, and you know they always adore their first-born to the exclusion of everything else. I don't think she is naturally of a cold nature, and when her first outburst of joy on the child is exhausted, she will, doubtless, give you that love which is your due, and which you so much need. But, in the meantime, it is foolish of you to remain at the Hall, as you will only work yourself up into a frenzy over nothing. Solitude is the worst thing in the world for a man in your condition, so the best thing you can do is to come up to town with me for a week or so."
"But I cannot leave Alizon alone," objected Errington in perplexity.
"Why not? She won't be lonely, as she has the child, and besides, if she neglects you as you say, it is because you are always near her. A few weeks' absence would make a wonderful change in her demeanour, I can tell you."
"Do you really think so?" asked poor Guy, his face lighting up.
"I'm certain of it. In spite of your years, my dear boy, I'm afraid you don't know much about feminine nature. Learn then, that to make a woman value a thing truly, it is necessary to put it out of her reach. Immediately it is in that position, then she'll strain every nerve to get it back again. Therefore, if you leave your wife, and neglect her for a time, she will begin to grow jealous, and see how wrongly she has treated you. When you come back again, she will alter her conduct, and things will be all right."
"I don't believe in that prescription," retorted Guy, sharply.
"Don't you? It does sound rather difficult of belief, but it's true for all that. And I can tell you of a case in question, that of Victoria Sheldon and Macjean."
"I don't understand----"
"No! then I'll explain. If you will carry your memory back to the time we were in Italy, you will remember that Otterburn was very much in love with Victoria Sheldon."
"To tell you the truth, I've almost forgotten Otterburn himself. Was he not your companion then?"
"Yes!--we parted at Venice, and I saw him again for the first time last week. Well, Otterburn was so much in love with Victoria that he proposed. She refused him, so Otterburn, having a spirit of his own, departed, and has never seen her since. Finding, therefore, that he stood on his dignity, she fell in love with him, and I feel certain, that if Otterburn chooses to ask her again, she will say yes."
"But will he choose?"
"He will! They love one another devotedly, and each is ignorant of the other's feelings, but when they meet everything will be arranged satisfactorily. So you see, my dear Guy, the value of absence, for if Otterburn hadn't gone away, he certainly would not have won the heart of Victoria Sheldon."
"And you advise me to do the same?"
"I do, decidedly! Leave your wife for a few weeks, and if she has any love for you--which she must have, or else she would not have married you--she will miss you hourly, and when you come back--well the game will be in your own hands."
Guy did not reply for a few minutes, but urged his horse into a canter, and the two rode along for some distance in silence. When nearing Denfield, however, Errington suddenly drew his horse up, and turned his head towards Eustace.
"I will take your advice," he said abruptly, "it can do no harm, and it may do good."
"What is the purest love on earth?A maiden's love for summer mirth?A lover's worship of his idolWhen bells ring out his happy bridal?A patriot's when on foreign strandHe suffers for his native land?A poet's or musician's loveFor thoughts inspired from above?Ah, no, the love most undefiledIs that the mother gives the child."
"What is the purest love on earth?A maiden's love for summer mirth?A lover's worship of his idolWhen bells ring out his happy bridal?A patriot's when on foreign strandHe suffers for his native land?A poet's or musician's loveFor thoughts inspired from above?Ah, no, the love most undefiledIs that the mother gives the child."
Lady Errington was as usual in the nursery, sitting in a low chair near the window, watching "Sammy" playing on the floor. "Sammy," otherwise Henry Gerald Guy Errington, was now a year old, and looked what he was, a remarkably fine child, of which any mother might be proud. "Proud," however, is too weak a word to use in connection with Alizon's love for her child, seeing that this small scrap of humanity rolling about at her feet was worshipped by her with an affection absolutely idolatrous. All her ideas, her thoughts, her affections, were bound up in Sammy, and had it been a question of death for mother or child, there is no doubt that Alizon would have cheerfully yielded up her own life to save that of her baby.
Nor was Sammy undeserving of worship, for he was really a beautiful boy, with the frank expression of his father's handsome face, and a healthy, sturdy little frame, which seemed to defy disease. During his twelve months of existence he had been very healthy, and even in the delicate matter of cutting his teeth had been more successful than the generality of infants. With his rosy little face, his big, blue eyes and soft yellow curls of hair, he looked as an obsequious nurse expressed it, "a perfect picter." That worthy lady, Mrs. Tasker by name, and fat, plethoric and red-faced by nature, was at the end of the nursery attending to some articles of the young gentleman's toilet, and Alizon had her child all to herself, for which privilege she was profoundly grateful, as Mrs. Tasker was a terrible autocrat.
A wonderful change had come over her since she had become a mother, for the statue had become a woman, the iceberg had melted, and in all her life she never looked so womanly as she did at this moment. Her face, flushed a delicate rose-colour, was sparkling with animation, her lips were parted in a merry laugh, and her eyes, soft and tender, absolutely seemed to devour the child as she bent forward to play with him.
Sammy was sitting like an infant Marius among the ruins of a Carthage of toys, for around him on all sides lay the evidences of his destructive capabilities. A woolly quadruped, something between a dog and a cow, dignified with the name of "Ba-lamb," lay on its back, piteously extending one mangled leg, the other three having been bitten off, and an indecent india-rubber doll, with no clothes and a squeak, was being dragged about by a string. There were several other things, such as a drum (broken), a toy soldier (head missing), a wooden Noah (paint sucked off), and last, but not least, a hunting crop of his father's, which was Sammy's special delight, because it wasn't supposed to be proper for him to have it.
Sammy at present was hammering "Eliza" (the doll aforesaid) with the whip, when suddenly discovering that one shoe had come off in his exertions, he rendered things equal by pulling off the other shoe, and then chuckled with delight at his success.
"Naughty Sammy," reproved his mother, bending down to pick up the shoes. "Mustn't do that--ah, bad child!"
The bad child, attracted by the fact that both shoes were out of his reach, made a snatch at them, with the result that he over-balanced himself, and came down heavily on his head. He was undecided whether to howl or not, when his mother settled the question by picking him up with a cry of pity, whereat, knowing the right thing to do, he howled vigorously.
"Mother's own precious! mother's own darling!" lamented Alizon, rocking him to and fro on her breast; upon which Sammy, finding the rocking pleasant, roared louder than ever, whereupon Mrs. Tasker hurried forward to give her opinion.
"Why, whatever's the matter, my lady?" she asked anxiously. "He hasn't swallowed anything has he?"
This was Mrs. Tasker's constant nightmare, for Sammy had an ostrich-like capacity for swallowing anything that came handy, and disposed of all sorts of things in this manner, to the great detriment of his stomach.
"He's hurt his head, Nurse," explained Lady Errington, anxiously, while Sammy, satisfied at being the centre of attraction, stopped roaring. "His poor head. He fell over on the floor."
"He's allay's doin' that," said Nurse in despair. "I nivir did see sich a topply child. Feathers is lead to his upsettings."
The comparison was not a particularly happy one, but it served Mrs. Tasker, who thereupon wanted to take Sammy from his mother, a proceeding to which Lady Errington strongly objected.
"No, don't Nurse please! let me hold him a little time! See he's quite good now."
And indeed, Sammy was now behaving like an angel, for being attracted by a small gold brooch his mother wore, he was standing up on his sturdy legs, plucking at it with chubby fingers, and gurgling to himself in a most satisfied manner.
"I nivir did see such a dear child," remarked Mrs. Tasker admiringly. "'Is 'owls is hoff as soon as on. Why the last as I nussed, my lady, were that givin' to hollerin' as you might 'ave thought I'd put 'im to bed with a pin-cushing. But as for Master Sammy, well----" and casting up her little eyes to the ceiling, Mrs. Tasker expressed in pantomime, with a pair of dumpy red hands, that words failed her.
"He's an angel! an angel!" murmured Alizon fondly, covering the rosy little face with kisses. "Oh, nurse, isn't he perfect?"
Nurse expressed her firm conviction that there never was nor never would be such a perfectly angelic child, and then the two women indulged in a lavish display of grovelling affection, with many inarticulated words, tender fondlings and indistinct kisses, all of which Sammy accepted with the greatest calmness as his just due.
At this moment a servant entered the nursery to inform Lady Errington that Sir Guy and Mr. Eustace Gartney were waiting for her in the Dutch room, at which Alizon was in despair, for it was now the time when Sammy took his airing, and therefore one of the most interesting events of the day. However, much as she disliked leaving the child, she could hardly refuse to see Eustace without appearing pointedly rude, so sent the servant away with the information that she would be down immediately.
"I won't be longer than I can help, Nurse," she said dolefully, delivering Sammy into the extended arms of Mrs. Tasker. "Be sure you take the greatest care in dressing him."
"Well, my lady," said Mrs. Tasker, with scathing irony, "I 'opes as I've dressed a child afore."
"Yes! Yes! of course," replied Lady Errington hastily, for she had a wholesome fear of the autocrat's temper, "but you know how anxious I am! and his bottle, Nurse! take care it's warm, and Nurse! please don't go out until I send up a message."
"Will it be long?" demanded Mrs. Tasker determinedly, "because there ain't much sun, and this blessed child must git as much as he can. It makes 'im grow."
"No! only a few minutes," said Alizon quickly. "You see, Nurse, I'll want to show him to Mr. Gartney. Take the greatest care--the very greatest care--goodbye, mother's angel--kiss mother, dearest."
Sammy opened his button of a mouth and bestowed a damp caress on his mother, which was his idea of kissing, and then Lady Errington, yielding to stern necessity, withdrew slowly, with her eyes fixed on the child to the last, and even when she closed the nursery door, she strained her ears to hear him crowing.
Both gentlemen were waiting in the Dutch room, which received its name from the fact that it looked out on to the prim garden, with the rows of box-wood, the beds of gaudy tulips and the fantastically clipped yew trees. Guy was in a much more cheerful mood than usual, as he thought that the panacea prescribed by Eustace would make an end of all his troubles, and Gartney himself experienced a wonderful feeling of exhilaration at the near prospect of seeing his visionary lady of Como once more.
The soft sweep of a robe, the turning of the handle of the door, and in another moment she stood before him, a fair, gracious woman, who advanced slowly with outstretched hand and a kindly smile.
"How do you do, Mr. Gartney, after all this time?" she said sweetly, clasping his extended hand. "I thought we were never going to see you again."
Was this the pale, cold Undine he had last seen at Como, more ethereal than the visioned spirits of romance? Was this the perfect, bloodless statue of whom Guy complained? This lovely breathing woman, aflush with all the tender grace of motherhood, with delicately pink cheeks, eyes brilliant with animation, and a voice rich and mellow as the sound of a silver bell. Yes! his prophecy had come true; the haunting, hungry look had departed from her eyes, for in the full satisfaction of the strong maternal instinct the thin, unsubstantial ghost of maidenhood had disappeared; and in this beautiful woman, aglow with exuberant vitality, he recognized the reality of the visionary creation of his dreaming brain.
"Did you think I was lost in Arabian solitudes?" he said, recovering from his momentary fit of abstraction. "I'm afraid I'm not the sort of man to be lost. I always come back again, like a modern Prodigal Son."
Alizon laughed when he spoke thus, but months afterwards she recollected those careless words. At present, however, she sat down near him, and began to talk, while Guy, who had uttered no word since she entered the room, stood silently at the window, staring out at the quaint Dutch garden.
"Now I suppose you are going to stay at home, and tell your tales from your own chimney corner?" said Lady Errington, clasping her hands loosely on her knees.
Eustace shook his head.
"I thought so the other day, but now--I'm going on an exploring expedition up the Nile."
"You must have the blood of the Wandering Jew in your veins."
"Or Cain!--he was rather fond of travelling, wasn't he?"
"Don't be profane, Mr. Gartney," said Alizon, trying to look serious. "But really you ought to settle down and marry."
"Yes, shouldn't he?" observed Guy caustically, turning round. "Go in for the delights of the family circle."
"That all depends whether he would appreciate them or not," replied Lady Errington coldly, flashing an indignant look at her husband, upon which Eustace to avoid unpleasantness made a hasty observation.
"By the way, talking of the family circle, I have to congratulate you, Lady Errington, on the birth of a son."
Alizon's eyes, which had hardened while looking at Guy, grew wondrous soft and tender.
"Yes!--he is the dearest child in the world--everyone loves him except his father."
"What nonsense Alizon!" said Guy, hastily turning towards his wife. "I'm very fond of him indeed, but one gets tired of babies."
"I daresay, but not of their own children," answered Lady Errington indignantly. "You must see him, Mr. Gartney, and I'm sure you'll say you never saw such a lovely child."
She arose from her seat and left the room quickly, while Eustace looked reproachfully at Guy.
"You shouldn't talk like that," he said quietly, "I don't wonder you find things disagreeable if you sneer at the child."
"I don't sneer at the child," retorted Guy sullenly, "but I'm tired of hearing nothing but baby chatter all day long."
"Perhaps, if you were as attentive to the baby as your wife, it would be advisable."
"Nonsense! I can't be on my knees before a cradle all day, and besides Alizon won't let me come near it. One would think I was going to murder the child the way she looks at me when I lay a finger on it."
"Mr. Gartney," said Lady Errington's voice at the door. "Come upstairs with me to the nursery."
"Can't I come to Paradise also?" observed Guy wistfully as his cousin was leaving the room.
"Certainly, come if you care to," replied Alizon coldly.
"No, thank you," replied Errington abruptly, his brow growing black with rage at the coldness of the invitation.
"I'll stay here till you return."
Lady Errington went upstairs slowly with Eustace, with a look of anger on her face.
"You see," she said bitterly, pausing at the nursery door, "he does not care a bit about his child."
"Oh, I think he does," answered Eustace discreetly, "but he thought you did not want him to come."
"I am always glad for him to come," remarked Alizon coldly, "but when he does he only makes disagreeable remarks about the boy, so his visits are never very pleasant."
Things were decidedly wrong between this young couple, and they so thoroughly misunderstood one another that Eustace was at a loss how to set them right. He was saved the trouble of further thought, however, by Lady Errington opening the door and preceding him into the nursery.
"There he is, Mr. Gartney," said the young mother, "look at my precious."
"My precious," in all the glory of white hat, white cape and woolly gloves and shoes, was seated in his perambulator ready to go out for his airing, and Mrs. Tasker, with the under-nurse, were both attached to the wheels of his chariot. At the sight of Gartney's bronzed face, he set up a howl, and was only pacified by being taken out of his carriage into the protecting arms of his mother.
"The complete Madonna now," thought Eustace, as he looked at the flushed face of the young mother bending over the rosy one of the child.
"Did he cry then! sweetest! What do you think of him, Mr. Gartney?"
"There can be but one opinion," replied that gentleman solemnly, "he's a very beautiful child, and you may well be proud of him, Lady Errington."
"Did you ever see a finer child?" demanded Alizon, insatiable for praise.
"No, never," answered Eustace, which was true enough, as he hated babies and never looked at them unless forced to. "Hi, baby, chuck! chuck!"
"Goo! goo! goo!" gurgled Master Errington, and stretched out his chubby arms to Gartney, intimating thereby a desire to improve his acquaintance with that gentleman.
"Oh, he's quite taken to you," said Lady Errington gaily. "Just feel what a weight he is."
So Eustace was forced to take the child in his arms, and looked as awkward as a man usually does when burdened with a baby. Ultimately Sammy was returned to his mother's arms, and she took him down the stairs, while the footman and Mrs. Tasker between them carried down the light wickerwork perambulator.
"Wheel him up and down the terrace for a time, Nurse," said Alizon, when the child was once more replaced in his little carriage. "I'll be out soon."
They were standing at the door, and Lady Errington waited there until Mrs. Tasker vanished with the baby round the corner on to the wide terrace, when she turned to Eustace with a sigh.
"Does that mean that you are anxious to get to the baby?" asked Eustace, raising his eyebrows, as they walked back to the Dutch room.
"Oh no, really," replied Lady Errington, with polite mendacity, "do you think I am never happy away from Sammy?"
"Are you?" he asked, eyeing her keenly.
Alizon flushed a bright crimson, laughed in an uneasy manner and fidgeted nervously.
"What a shame to push me into a corner!" she said at length, raising her clear eyes to his face. "No!--I am never happy away from my child. I am so afraid of any accident happening! Dear me, what has become of Guy?"
They had entered the Dutch room by this time and found it empty, but on the table afternoon tea was laid out, so Alizon sat down to pour out Eustace a cup. Gartney looked at her furtively as she did this, and thought he had never seen her look so charming.
"Lucky Guy," he said at length, taking the cup she handed to him.
"Because of Sammy?" she asked, looking at him with a bright smile.
"No! because of you!" replied Eustace boldly, whereat she shook her blonde head gaily, though her lips wore a somewhat scornful look.
"I'm afraid Guy doesn't think so!"
Eustace judged this a good opening from which to lead up to his attempt at reconciliation, so spoke out at once.
"Lady Errington, don't you think you are rather hard upon Guy?"
She turned her face towards him sharply.
"Why do you ask that?" she demanded coldly.
"I am afraid it is a liberty," answered Eustace slowly, "but you see I am Guy's cousin, so the near relationship must excuse my apparent rudeness. But the fact is you don't seem perfectly happy."
"I am happy, perfectly happy I have everything in the world I desire--health, wealth and my darling child."
"I see you don't count your husband among your blessings," said Eustace.
"Oh, yes! I'm very fond of Guy. He is the father of my child!"
"Is that the only reason you are fond of him?"
"Really, Mr. Gartney, I do not see by what right you speak like this to me," she said with great hauteur.
"I beg your pardon," said Eustace, with cold politeness. "I was wrong to do so."
Lady Errington began to twist her marriage ring round and round, as if she wanted to pull it off, and a frown passed across her mobile face. Eustace, versed in the ways of her sex, knew that those signs betokened further remarks on her part, so he wisely said nothing, but waited for the outburst, which came exactly as he expected.
"I am very fond of Guy," she asserted defiantly. "I would not have married him if I had not been fond of him. What makes you think I'm not? I suppose Aunt Jelly has been saying something?"
"My dear Lady Errington," responded Gartney replacing, his cup on the table, "I had no right to speak as I did. I beg your pardon."
"Please answer my question, Mr. Gartney," she said angrily, a red spot of colour burning on either cheek. "Has Aunt Jelly been saying anything?"
Gartney was not the man to remain in any difficulty where a lie could help him out of it, so he replied to her question with the greatest deliberation.
"Aunt Jelly has been saying nothing. The only reason that makes me speak is that you seem to me to be fonder of the baby than of your own husband."
The murder was out, and he was prepared for a storm, but it did not come, as Alizon had quite as much self-control as himself.
"Well, and what is wrong in that?" she said coldly. "I do love my child more than my husband, any mother would."
"Isn't that rather hard on the husband?"
"No! I do not see it! Of course, I love Guy very much--much more than he loves his child," she finished with a burst of passion.
"I think Guy is very fond of the child," said Eustace quietly.
"He is not," she replied angrily, rising to her feet; "he grudges every hour I spend with the boy. He would have me neglect the child in order to be always with him. But there, what is the use of talking?--neither you nor Guy can understand the feelings of a mother."
This remark closed the discussion so far as Eustace was concerned, for he deemed it useless to argue with a woman who was so blind to everything except her maternal feelings, so he hastened to turn the conversation.
"You are right there, Lady Errington," he said good-humouredly, "I am a bachelor, so know absolutely nothing about these things. But Guy looks a little knocked up, so I want to take him to town with me."
"Oh, certainly," replied Alizon indifferently. "A run up to town will do him good. I want Guy to enjoy himself in every way. But now, Mr. Gartney, excuse me for a time, as I must go and see how the baby is getting on. Will you stay to dinner?"
"No, thank you," said Eustace, rising and holding out his hand. "I have some letters to write this evening, but I will come over to-morrow and see you before I go back to town."
"That's right," answered Lady Errington, smiling as she pressed his hand. "Goodbye at present. Come to-morrow, and I will show you the baby again."
She went to the door, when it suddenly opened, and Guy entered.
"Oh, here you are, Guy," she said sweetly, as he stood holding the door open for her to pass through, "I was just going to send for you. Mr. Gartney is going away."
"And where are you going?" asked Guy, with a half-smile on his stern face.
"Can you ask?" she said archly. "To the baby, of course." And with a laugh she vanished through the doorway, while Guy, with a scowl, pushed the door roughly to, and strode across the room to Eustace.
"Well?" he demanded curtly.
"Well," answered Eustace coolly, "I did what I could--but of course, my dear fellow, it's a very delicate matter, and really I had no right to interfere in any way."
"What did she say?" demanded Guy roughly, turning as white as a sheet.
"She said you had better go to Town with me," answered Gartney reluctantly.
Guy burst out with a harsh laugh, and turned towards the window with a gesture of despair.
"Good God! and I'm breaking my heart for that statue."